


Garden

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [52]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Public Sex, but it's not clearly stated, but like, dub con, in my head it's totally consensual, sherlock giving in to john's kinks as opposed the other way around, so dub con just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>We all need an audience sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts).



> written as a follow up to "wedding."

Iron warm from the sun, edges where the rust has bled through chipped off. They crumble under John’s fingers. He moans, his body pressed against the railing and Sherlock behind him laughs in his ear.

“Can they see you, John? Has anyone looked yet?”

The garden is crowded, the green hidden by the milling guests. He sees Harry and Clara swaying to a silent tune in the centre of it all, the smiles of tolerant friends surrounding them.

He is three storeys up, on the roof of the reception hall. His coat is buttoned tightly down his front and the wool presses and rubs against his penis, exposed and erect behind its concealment. Behind him, Sherlock’s teeth dig briefly into his neck.

“Are they watching, John?” he asks. “Will they see?”

He is a weight along the length of John’s trapped body but John still feels himself trying to arch backwards, trying to get closer. He can feel Sherlock’s cock pressing against his back.

“Sherlock. Please. Please.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock says, and long arms circle him and John watches white hands slowly unbutton the coat, each new unfastening getting a little bit closer, and when he feel the first brush of September air cool and glorious against his aching erection he gives a groan of relief, of gratitude, and Sherlock smiles into his neck.

“You’re so good, John,” Sherlock whispers as the last button comes undone and John stares in fascinated horror as the folds are pulled back, as he is revealed, his sweat soaked suit and the crude, bobbing length of his flushed and reddened cock. It is dripping, the slide of each drop of precome a slow torture on his glans, rubbed raw and stinging as it slides down the crease of his frenulum and settles.

“So good, John,” Sherlock says. “So beautiful. Show them, John. Let them see.” He presses forward again, pushing John into the iron rails and John watches as his cock is slotted perfectly between two of them before his face is pushed too close to look down and he can see nothing but the garden, nothing but the crowds of people milling about below him, celebrating the two women at its centre.

“I’m so glad, John,” Sherlock tells him as he pushes John’s long coat up so that it bunches, bulky at his waist. “I am so glad that we had these trousers made. They suit you. You should wear them all the time.”

John blinks wildly out at the audience below him, their heads all turned away. The trousers, the trousers Sherlock had insisted on having altered. The zip in the front removed entirely, and new one put in in the back, hidden by the seam that runs along the cleft of his arse. He feels it being dragged apart now, the subtle vibration of its undoing making him gasp. He tries to arch backwards but he is pressed too firmly against the iron railing. He can feel his cock twitching and he can imagine it, huge and obscene, thrust out between the black iron spindles, enormous and pink and unavoidable, bobbing lewdly in the open air, utterly obvious to anyone who happens to look up. He closes his eyes, imagines it, imagines being seen, the hundred pointing fingers, the horrified faces, the screams. He moans out loud and behind him Sherlock chuckles.

“Open your eyes, John,” he says. “I want you to watch them while I fuck you. I want you to be able to see it when they notice. I want you to see the disgust in their faces when they see how perverse you are, Harry’s quiet, respectable brother. I want you to see their looks when I make you come.”

“Sherlock. Oh, god. Sherlock. Sherlock,  _please.”_

“Shhh. You know the rules, John. No noise. I will be very,  _very_ disappointed if you make any sound.”

John’s lips clamp shut and he tries to nod, but Sherlock’s fingers are already behind him, already pulling at the plug that’s been lodged in John’s body for the last four hours, and he whines as he feels it being tugged out now, the broad lip of its shaft forcing its way out past the rim of his hole.

“Hush, John,” Sherlock says. “Very, very quiet.”

The last inches slide out. It seems to take forever and John’s hole is left clenching at empty air for a few brief seconds. Barely seconds. Sherlock’s cock is there almost as soon as the plug is gone, pushing in, not giving John time to breathe between the two separate invasions. It feels huge, far larger than the plug, and he is pushing inside John without stopping to give him time, without allowing him a single moment to adjust to the heavy heat of it, sliding in past the clenching rim of his arse. He is panting, pressed against the railing. He can feel his cock twitching, how close he is, how much he needs to come. Sherlock is filling him in a single deliberate slide and when finally John feels the brush of Sherlock’s suit against the skin of his arse and Sherlock gives a grunt of satisfaction at being fully sheathed in John’s greedy body. He gives no warning, doesn’t wait before he starts to pull back again, and John stares open-mouthed and gaping. Helpless. Sherlock is going to fuck him and he can’t make a sound.

It is relentless. That first inexorable push into John’s body was a gentle thing in comparison to the second sudden deliberate slam of Sherlock’s hips against him. John grunts, can’t help it, and he gets a clamp of teeth on the side of his neck as a warning.

Sherlock fucks him, pushing in and out of his body, hard and silent, and the weight of his cock, the enormity of it shoving its way past John’s needy, wanting hole, filling him up and never quite leaving him empty, is an overwhelming thing. And the whole time he is being fucked, impaled and pinioned by that hot, hard body from behind, the crowd in the garden continues to mill about, ignorant and blind as John tries desperately to hold on, looking down on them with wide and frantic eyes and waits for someone to see.

 _Look up, don’t look up, look up, don’t look up._ It’s a furious refrain in his head, desperate and bewildering and he doesn’t know what he wants, but he knows that Sherlock wants him here, he knows that Sherlock wants him silent, and he hangs onto that, grasps it tightly and remembers and tries to ignore the building desperation in his pinioned hips.

“Do you see them?” Sherlock grunts in his ear as he thrusts unrelenting into John’s arse. “That woman in the blue dress. She can see you. I saw her looking. She’s trying to pretend but I saw the look on her face when she looked up. She knows you’re up here being fucked by me. Did you see, John? She’s looking right now.”

John’s wild eyes rove, desperately trying to find her, the single clear face in the blank and faceless crowd. He can feel himself burning, his cock twitching and he makes a sound, a whine, high-pitched and wanting and oh god, so desperate.

“Sherlock,” John gasps. “Sherlock, please.”

“There’s a man there. He can see you too. They’re both watching now. They’re both waiting for you to come. They want to see it. Shall I show them, John? Shall I show them what I can make you do?”

“Sherlock.  _Oh god, Sherlock, please, please, please please please pleasepleasepleaseplease.”_

“Come, John. Come for me. John. Come!”

The command slams into him with the drive of Sherlock’s cock and John can feel it pushing out through the frantic strain of his own panting breaths. He comes and it is an emptying, agonising thing, leaving him hollow and drained as behind him Sherlock still pulses, in and out of his clenching, grasping hole.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, and even in his half-dazed state John hears the edge of it, clipped and desperate. “John, I’m going to come in your now. Fill you with my come. You think this is over. It’s not over. I’m going to plug you up again, button up your coat again with your soft cock hanging out of your trousers. And in an hour, I’m going to take you somewhere else and fill you up once more. And the hour after that, and the hour after that. I let you come, John. But this is the last time today. You spoke when I told you to stay silent, and for that you’re going to have to be punished. You’re going to walk around with my come buried in you till we get home, and then I’ll lay you on the bed and fuck your face and make you swallow me, till I’m everywhere. Till you can taste me. Till you swear you can feel me leaking out of your pores. And tomorrow, maybe, if you’re good, if you’re very,  _very_ good, I will let you come again.”

“Sherlock. Oh, god.”

“Hush, John. You don’t get to speak now,” Sherlock says, and with a sudden shudder of his pumping hips he comes and John can’t help but whimper as he feels the wet heat pulse deep inside his body.

Sherlock pulls out almost immediately, before he’s begun to soften again, and John gasps at the sudden emptiness, at the feeling of the come slipping out of his hole and down his thighs. And then there is something hard and solid at his hole again and once more he is being filled, a plug, a different one from the one before, a larger one. It’s being shoved relentlessly up his red and empty arse, and when it settles, finally, with its base flush against his hole, he gives a whimpering sigh and closes his eyes.

He feels the vibration of the zipper being closed over his arse again, then long arms reach around him and warm fingers find his limp cock. John flinches at the feeling of them, sliding tenderly up and down the soft sensitive flesh, and then they are gone and he looks down once more to watch the long coat being slowly buttoned back up.

“In an hour, John,” Sherlock says in his ear as the last button slips into place. “I want to see how much you can hold before you start to beg.”

John whines, letting himself sink back into those long encompassing arms. “Please,” he says. “Sherlock. Please.”


End file.
